


What's in a Name?

by notebooksandlaptops



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Animal Abuse, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Brief Description of Animal Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Like, Lots and lots of trust, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Behavior, Power of Names, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Spells & Enchantments, Trust, geralt trusts Jaskier, ish, its about the, mutal trust and respect, so much, this whole fic is just an excuse to show how much they trust each other, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24786820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notebooksandlaptops/pseuds/notebooksandlaptops
Summary: Dandelion, Dandelion, Buttercup, Jaskier...Jaskier knows the power names hold. He has always chosen his carefully; a bright spot of yellow in a green field, a flower beloved by children and hated by adults, the annoyance of a weed that won’t go away.Dandelion, Dandelion, Buttercup, Jaskier…His true name though? Well. That is just for him and him alone. His parents know it, of course, for they gifted it to him. As such, he stays as far away from them as possible.He knows the power names hold; he knows the magic of the fae.-///-Or, after a fae court steals Ciri away, Geralt and Jaskier must devise a plan to save her. An ultimate act of trust is shared.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 88
Kudos: 1123





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning: during a flashback scene to his childhood fae!Jaskier learns the true name of a cat and there is a brief description of animal abuse. If this sort of thing upsets you please look after yourself and dont continue reading!

_ Dandelion, Dandelion, Buttercup, Jaskier… _

Jaskier knows the power names hold. He has always chosen his carefully; a bright spot of yellow in a green field, a flower beloved by children and hated by adults, the annoyance of a weed that won’t go away.

_ Dandelion, Dandelion, Buttercup, Jaskier… _

His true name though? Well. That is just for him and him alone. His parents know it, of course, for they gifted it to him. As such, he stays as far away from them as possible.

He knows the power names hold; he knows the magic of the fae.

He knows it intimately, deep in his bones. For it is in his laughter that coaxes meadows to flower and in his smile which can make the sun shine a little brighter. He knows the power of the fae in the same way he knows which flowers to braid into Geralt and Ciri’s hair for protection, knows which blessings to bestow on which animals before they eat.

It’s never something he’s tried awfully hard to hide, at least around Geralt. He wanted to leave the fae courts and so he did and that required some…adjusting, a few careful glamours, the ability to hold back the volatile nature of his emotions (at least to a certain degree). But when it is just him and Geralt, he’s long since given up trying to hide the sharpness of his teeth, or the way his fingernails might look like claws, or how his hair curls sometimes in a way that could suggest horns hidden within its thickets.

Geralt doesn’t mention it often and that’s just fine with Jaskier. He heard Geralt mutter about how tricky little fae buggers could be once, but at that he just grinned and kissed the Witcher’s cheek, enamoured by the way it made him flush red.

Still, he knows the power of the fae and the power of names.

Which is how he knows that they’re fucked when one gets hold of Ciri.

-///-

It’s Jaskier’s fault, really. He should have noticed they had strayed close to a court. He shouldn’t have gotten so complacent. Instead, he’d let Geralt and Ciri stay in the woods while he went to check that the village was free of Nilfguardians, forgetting, idiotically, Nilfguardians weren’t the only threat they should have been worried over.

By the time he returned, Geralt was sat under a tree, roots creeping towards his body, eyes glazed over. His swords are scattered on the ground, as if withdrawn and dropped too fast, the clearing smelling like a fight ended too fast. 

Cirilla was nowhere in sight.

It wasn’t a surprise, really. Fae like shiny things, magic things, precious things. Jaskier has always seen Geralt as the ultimate shiny, magic, precious thing, but he knows most of his kind would see Geralt as nothing but a grouchy nuisance to be disposed of, an affront to proper magic, a mutant. Cirilla though…her magic is natural, and it is strong, and her hair is bright and curls just so, her eyes are green like moss and emeralds.

It doesn’t take a lot to put two and two together.

If he concentrates, he can feel it, like something sat uncomfortably in the corner of his eye. Somewhere hidden in this wood, there’s a fae court.

Luckily, Geralt is easy to wake. Jaskier lets his too-long fingers brush against Geralt’s cheek, whispers to the trees a plea to let him go. It takes a heartbeat, but then Geralt is blinking, suddenly awake and aware.

Aware that he’s been tricked. Aware that his child-surprise – their dear little lion cub – is gone.

Gone to a fairy court.

That knowledge can hardly be a blessing.

“Stop pacing,” Jaskier snaps, eventually. He’s on edge too. She might not be  _ his  _ child surprise, but she’s precious to him just as much as Geralt is. The idea of Cirilla trapped away with the ugliest of monsters with the prettiest of faces? It’s not one he relishes in. He knows first-hand just how cruel and vicious the fae can be.

Geralt does stop, but there’s nothing restful about the look upon his face. “I’m going to need iron,” he grunts, finally.

Jaskier knows he doesn’t carry much of it anymore, and he knows why too. He’s  _ grateful  _ even if now it might prove their undoing _.  _ Geralt has the iron sword, which he is careful to keep out of reach, but that is all. They’d need a lot more than one sword to infiltrate a court without risking Geralt being put under their spell all over again. Hell, they could cover Geralt in the stuff head to foot, and he doubted it’d do much good. 

Besides, he wasn’t planning on letting Geralt infiltrate a fae court anyway. Not even if he could get all the blacksmiths in the continent to give him their iron reserves.

“Uh, no way. You’re not just waltzing in there. You saw what they did to you last time.”

“I wasn’t prepared.”

Jaskier, hypocrite that he was, began pacing,“And you will be now? How many times have you gone up against fae, Geralt?”

Geralt’s lips curl into a slight snarl, which is how Jaskier knows he’s  _ right.  _ In all Geralt’s long years, the only fae he’s ever gone up against is Jaskier – and he’s hardly ‘gone up’ against the Bard. Other fae? They won’t be  _ nearly  _ as kind nor as charming. Just because they tend to leave humans alone these days, didn’t mean they were any less dangerous. It just meant they’d lost interest in a world which was slowly losing sight of the importance of magic.

But if a Witcher stumbled into their court? Well. The fae could handle a Witcher. Nobody missed Witchers if they disappeared, after all.

At least, not many. Jaskier would miss Geralt immensely. Which was why he wasn’t going to have Geralt stepping into any damn circles or following any damn trails.

“It doesn’t matter. They have  _ Ciri,  _ Jaskier. We’re not going to just fucking sit here.”

“And do you think it will be any better when they have both of you? Geralt, they are  _ the _ great masters of torture, Nilfguard will look like a princesses birthday party if they get their hands on you – and worse, they won’t even  _ see  _ it as torture. It will just be a fun game to them, to get you under their spell and mess with your mind. They’ll make you fall in love with them, crush your heart, tear out your eyes and kiss your feet and you’ll be a  _ mess. _ ” He can barely breathe thinking about it, actually.

Despite the warning, Geralt’s jaw sets. Jaskier groans internally. Geralt is going to be stubborn about this, not that Jaskier doesn’t understand why even before Geralt voices it. “They could be doing that to Ciri right now.”

They could. All that and more. Jaskier would never forgive himself if something happened to the girl, and he had no plans to just leave her there. But equally, he wasn’t about to lose Geralt too.

“Not all the fae are bad,” Geralt murmurs, eventually, the wind tugging playfully on the ends of his hair, “they can be reasoned with.”

It’s a nice sentiment, but a futile one. Jaskier shakes his head, “no. No. Geralt, they can’t. I’m a…special case. I’ve probably got human blood in me somewhere; my mother always did have a habit of sleeping with the wrong people.”

Geralt’s lips curl in the vague hint of a smile, “like mother, like son.”

“Piss off.”

Geralt’s gaze flickered back to the forest, his eyes tracking for movement he won’t find. The fae would have taken their prize deep into the courts, not just left out here where anyone could steal it back. They won’t find Ciri unless they venture to the fae realm.

Jaskier has no desire to go back to a court, back to the lies and the trickery and the awful, echoing, unending manic laughter of his people.

But he loves Geralt. He loves Geralt the way that only a fae can; completely and utterly. He loves Geralt like it is his purpose, like he loves music, like he loves the little yellow flowers that sprout at his feet. It is all at once natural and fierce, protective, and jealous, cruel, and kind.

Geralt is  _ his. _

He’s not letting anyone else take his Witcher away.

“I’ll go.” He decides, finally.

“You hate the courts.”

“I love Ciri more.”

“No. No, Jaskier. You act as if they won’t be just as capable of overpowering you if you try and take their prize.”

Geralt is right. They  _ would  _ be just as capable of overpowering him. Entering another fae’s court was a dangerous game. The forest wasn’t liable to listen to him, the trees wouldn’t be on his side, nor the wind, nor the water.

But, while Geralt is right, he’s also overlooking-- “I’m more immune than you,” Geralt’s mouth opened, ready to argue, but Jaskier cut in, resolve in his eyes “the longer we spend debating it, the longer she’s with them.”

Jaskier is already removing the daggers he keeps in his lute case, beautiful silver things, shinny and sharp. They won’t do half as good a job as iron would, but he’s loath to lose his own fingers wielding a weapon. It will have to do.

Geralt’s fingers close around his wrist, though, stopping him from placing them in his belt, “what about your…charms?”

“No. Won’t work. Nature’ll listen to them. It’s their court.”

Geralt tilts his head to one side, “there’s nothing else?”

“Fucks sake, Geralt, do you think I’m holding out on you on purpose?” he demands, “Do you think I enjoy this situation any more than you do? No, there’s nothing else. Unless we get Ciri to, I don’t know, give me her true name, there’s nothing for it.”

Geralt’s face goes still for a moment.

Ah shit, he’s gone and said the wrong thing. Probably shouldn’t go threatening to take the name of Geralt’s daughter, even in jest, “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t take her name. Obviously. That was just—”

“No,” Geralt says, slowly. He’s still got his hand around Jaskier’s wrist and slowly he tugs Jaskier’s arm closer, so that his hand is resting on Geralt’s chest, near his heart, near the medallion which Jaskier knows warms Geralt’s skin whenever Jaskier is in the near vicinity. Jaskier can feel the slow rhythm of Geralt’s heartbeat vibrating against his skin. “I have an idea.”

And Geralt explains.

It is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the worst idea Jaskier has ever heard. In his  _ life.  _ That’s three hundred years of shitty, terrible, awful ideas and  _ this one _ ? This one takes the cake. What the fuck is Geralt thinking?

“I trust you.” Geralt says as if it’s that simple. 

Jaskier pinches the bridge of his nose, contemplating all the many ways Geralt might have lost his mind. Perhaps the last time they ran into Nilfguards soldiers he got hit on the head, or that drowner last week… something must be loose inside that brain of his to get him to suggest  _ this _ ? Sure, he knows Geralt trusts him, but trust is relative.

But really…they’re short on time. And it’s the best plan they’ve got.

“Fine.”

Geralt smiles, a proper smile, and there is no anxiety in his eyes as he leans in to press his lips to the shell of Jaskier’s ear, whispering in that deep growl that has always managed to make Jaskier’s toes curl.

-///-

Fae courts aren’t meant for those of the mortal realm.

As such, they tend to…flicker. They slip from the mind like sand through an hourglass, as inevitable in their loss as the passage of time. There is no account in any language nor in any memory that truly captures their likeness nor will there ever be.

Of course, for that very reason, Oxenfurt has a whole room in their library devoted to books about fae courts. Tell a scholar something is unknowable, and no matter how often they claim to agree, they’ll spend lifetimes writing about it anyway just to prove you wrong.

Here are some of the best-known excerpts:

_ “It was as if the forests and the night skies had become one, the blurred edges, nebulas made out of oak and birch, stars shining on grassy floor. I had stumbled into fairyland, and its beauty was absolute in a way I have never seen since.” –  _ Short Story by the renowned Poet Arkinel, rumoured to have bedded several fae.

_ “The Fae courts are dark places. They may have the illusion of beauty, but not the illusion of warmth. You’ll always be cold there.” –  _ Professor Stiblor, devoted his life to studying the fae courts (but never left Oxenfurt long enough to find any).

_ “Fae are tricky buggers. Their courts probably are too.”  _ – Unknown Witcher, collected into the Seventeen Volumes of Magical Creatures from the Mouth of a Hunter, edited by Sam Olsonfal.

_ “Have you ever considered the fact that the fae might  _ want  _ their courts to be a mystery, so we go looking for them? Human beings have never been able to resist learning secrets, no matter how many warning signs might pave our path.” –  _ Professor Skilet, Philosophy Professor and Master of the Seven Liberal Arts.

Of all of the exerts Jaskier had read (and laughed at) during his time as a student in the halls of Oxenfurt, he liked Professor Skilet’s the best, and Professor Stiblor’s the least (he had  _ taken  _ professor Stiblor’s class, and the idiot hadn’t even released he had a fae in his midst, some expert he was).

But, Jaskier would give them all this, they were right about one thing. Whatever you had to say about the courts of the fae, they were indescribable, and made that way on purpose.

As he followed Geralt down the fairy trail, the way lined with mushrooms, bright red and poisoned, he wondered how much Geralt – and Ciri for that matter – would remember of this encounter later in life.

Probably not much.

His fingers shifted to run down Geralt’s back just the once, a silent plea to be careful.  _ Please, for me.  _ Before retreating into the shadows. Their plan would work only if Jaskier made himself appear just another fae among many, not an interloper into the court.

Fae Courts…flickered. They were built in part to confuse the human mind.

Jaskier just hoped they made it long enough that he actually had the chance to  _ ask  _ Geralt and Ciri what they remembered of it all, that they wouldn’t end up trapped here for the rest of eternity while the world spun on without them.

-///-

Laughter. That was the first sign that they were closing in on the court.

Shadows clung to Jaskier’s body which – in this realm – seemed both impossibly tall and impossibly small, as if he had read about humans and was perhaps trying to impersonate them, but was getting the whole thing impossibly wrong.

His fingers itched for his daggers, for protection, for something that he could use to escape this foul, beautiful place, but he had left them behind at Geralt’s bequest. The plan was not to be a threat. The plan was to be…gentle encouragement. That was all. To do that, he had to move in the shadows and fit  _ in  _ with the court. He couldn’t risk standing out, or he’d be stopped before he ever had a chance to encourage anything at all.

Still, it made him feel sick to his stomach, watching Geralt with a lone iron sword move in front of him; one witcher against the whole of the fae court.

They’d have him spellbound in seconds.

Laughter echoed louder and louder off rocks and trees and earth as they neared the Queen’s Circle, made up of towering stones. Something that might have been fire jumped at its centre, but if you squinted hard you could see the unnatural movement; bodies encased in flames, writhing about against one another in a show of hubris, or lust, or joy.

And there, trapped in the middle, their prize.

They’d braided flowers into Cirilla’s hair, but the wrong sort by far. Cyclamen to keep her separate from the mortal world, snapdragons to deceive her mind. Well, at least they’d thought her worthy of Hibiscus for beauty, but it did fuck all to help Geralt and him get her free.

She was also, Jaskier noted with a growing sense of dread, dancing.

Dancing a fairy dance.

Ciri’s movements were fluid, captivating, but they had no soul to them. Though her eyes were far away, the smile on her lips was empty, and there was a twitch about her muscles which sung of ignored pain. No doubt they’d had her at it for hours – perhaps even days, time passed so differently here – and her feet would be bleeding red blood onto the sodden earth.

Ciri did not look up at Geralt as the Witcher approached. She did not even seem to know he was there, oblivious to everything and anything that was not the task the fae had set for her. It was no surprise to Jaskier, but he could see the concern flash bright across Geralt’s face before anger settled in to take its place.

“I’ve come to take her back,” Geralt announced when it became clear the fae weren’t going to acknowledge his presence until he made them. Pompous, prideful lot that they were.

The laughter in the air doubled, and a woman who had been naught but stone a mere moment before removed herself from the top of one of the tallest rock. She carried herself with a far-reaching presence, her hair flowing water, her eyes bright as sunlight and just as painful. One didn’t need to see the crown of thorns resting upon her head to know she was the Queen of this court.

Jaskier had to keep himself back, stop himself stepping between Geralt and the threat at hand.  _ Not yet. _

“ _ You? Oh, silly little Witcher, you cannot take our prize. She is our powerful little puppet, and we love her so _ ,” her voice sounded more like a breeze than it did anything else, the words laced in song.

Jaskier grimaced. They probably had convinced themselves they loved her. That would make it even harder to take the child back. Still, he remained in the shadows, there but not.

Geralt didn’t bow his face away from her too-bright eyes, “Your kind values laws and deals. She is my child surprise. The fates decided she is mine.”

“ _ You  _ lost  _ her. Finders keepers, Witcher scum,”  _ despite their childishness, the Queen's words were a hollow hiss.

Geralt’s sword glinted in the not-fire.

“I will take her by force if I have to” Geralt warned.

“ _ One iron sword is no match for us, _ ” the Queen smiled then, a smile so bright, so beautiful, it was blinding – making it rather hard to put one's finger on how it could also be the ugliest thing Jaskier had ever seen. He’d take a drowner over this bitch any day. “ _ But we are not cruel.”  _ The Queen spoke, _ “If you wish to stay with the child, you need only ask, and we will keep you by her side forever and ever and ever…” _

Jaskier was loath to watch what was unfolding. He saw Geralt’s body lurch forward, could see the few steps the Witcher took against his will as the Queen beckoned him forward with one crooked finger.

Honestly, Jaskier was as surprised as any of the other Fae that Geralt managed to stop himself, that he managed to raise his sword and still his feet from joining his daughter in the fairy dance. The sword’s edge was an inch away from the Queen’s throat, hard and solid where she was glimmered and pale.

“Let her go,” Geralt commanded, again, growl in his voice steady and without fear.

Jaskier was rather proud of him, actually. For one shimmering moment, it seemed the Queen might agree, that they might get to leave without Jaskier having to do anything at all. Perhaps their plan would be unnecessary. Perhaps he’d never have to use the twisted power he’d been given.

But then the Queen's eyes narrowed. The Fae were many things, but above all they were proud. She would not appreciate any sign that a mere Witcher could best her wiles, nor a sword at her chest.“ _ Oh, such a bright mind. Not resistant to our charms for long though,”  _ and she leaned forward so that the iron touched her chest, and although her body convulsed at the touch, it did not stop her pressing a kiss to the Witcher’s forehead before she retreated.

Jaskier saw red.

Usually, he was good at hiding those parts of his nature that were…unreasonable, to humans. But he couldn’t help his instincts. Geralt was  _ his.  _ His to touch and claim and love, not some foolish Queen and her nowhere court. He couldn’t help but wish he had brought his daggers, so he could cut into the stupid bitches heart and  _ eat it raw. _

Jaskier stilled himself. He couldn’t give himself away, not yet. He had to blend in with the background, with all the other fae in this bastard court. He clamped down on the urge to bare his teeth as the Queen’s fingers moved in a sick caress against Geralt’s lips, clamped down the urge to burn this place to the ground.

For a moment, the fight remained in Geralt’s eyes. Jaskier almost thought he’d resist it once more; if anyone could surprise all their expectations it would be Geralt.

But then Geralt toppled forward, knees giving out from under him his eyes went glassy, an unnaturally large smile pulling at his lips.

The fae laughed.

And laughed and laughed and laughed.

It was the sound of a court, any court, but it wasn’t a sound Jaskier had liked even when he was part of one, let alone when it came in response to his lover's downfall.

Jaskier took a deep breath.

Well. Now was his time.

He stepped forward, heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to snarl and bite and snatch Geralt away, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept his head down, forced himself to appear like nothing more or less than another curious member of the court.

The Queen was already losing interest, turning her face back towards Cirilla. Likely her plan was to leave Geralt to the rest of her subjects to entertain themselves.

He crowded close to Geralt, to the mans face. Others were touching limbs and hands but he refused to snap at them.

Geralt laughed at their touch as if it tickled. The sound wasn’t Geralt though, wasn’t his usual amused chuckle, nor the yelps he’d let out when Jaskier touched a patch of skin that was oh too sensitive. It was too loud. It wasn’t right.

He cupped Geralt’s cheek, leaned his face close, close, close.

There was a word in his mouth, something that held  _ such  _ power. Power beyond that that even this Queen could master over Geralt, power that, once spoken, he would have use of for the rest of his life. 

Jaskier knows the power names hold. He has always chosen his carefully; a bright spot of yellow in a green field, a flower beloved by children and hated by adults, the annoyance of a weed that won’t go away.

He knows the power they hold.

Witchers do too; it’s why every little boy at the Keep chooses a new name at the start of their path.

Even Geralt.

But he was not born Geralt of Rivia.

The word rattles in Jaskier’s throat, threatening to spill over as he cards fingers through his lover's hair.

It is…ultimate trust, was ultimate trust when Geralt leant forward and whispered it to him half an hour ago in the forest clearing. The ultimate test of whether or not Jaskier truly loved him, truly could risk the temptation to own and take and have.

He still can’t believe Geralt gave it to him. Even under these circumstances. Unless he’s planning on running Jaskier through with the iron sword that he dropped to the ground a second ago, then he’s not only signed up to trust Jaskier today but forever. For as long as he lives.

It is a terrifying amount of responsibility. Jaskier isn’t sure he can handle it.

But here, and now, he has something more important to focus on. He cannot let them keep Geralt like this, nor Ciri. It is their only hope.

He leans in close, and whispers the name, feels the power vibrate out of him.

-///-

When Jaskier was just a boy, he learnt the true name of a cat.

It wasn’t a friendly cat, by any means. It was fat, orange, and more often than not smelt like  _ humans.  _ Jaskier had held nothing but contempt for the disgusting thing that would steal away the mice Jaskier was rather fond of.

It was an accident, that he’d learnt its name. Animals rarely  _ had  _ true names that they could recall, their own ignorance and stupidity a protective shield against the likes of him. They had the stupid names that the humans gave them, but the only power the name ‘Mrs Whiskers’ commanded was the power to look like a fool.

Still, he had found this one's name. He’d heard it whispered on the wind, passed from the cat's mother to the air, to his ears. Oh, how he had delighted to finally have a chance to feel the power of names for himself. Back then, the power of names had been something he knew only from his mother and fathers parenting techniques. He’d heard of how it could be used on humans to make them do  _ all  _ sorts, but by the time Jaskier was born humans had started adding middle names to trick his kind. Bastards.

The fat orange cat was round and stupid and yet when Jaskier spoke its name he felt power like he had never felt before. He felt every atom of the cat’s being shift into his grip. It felt like burrowing under hay, fallen leaves, pouncing mice, warm milk.

The power was bright and real, and for the first time in Jaskier’s life he knew what it was like to truly own something – not just to borrow something from the world until you were dead and buried _. _

He’d been young and foolish, and drunk on the power of it. He’d told it to run and it ran, he told it to shit and it shit, he’d told it to sing like a bird and it butchered its own vocal cords trying to do as it was told.

He’d held so much power over the thing, he’d made it destroy itself.

He held the cat, later, when he realised what he’d done. The cat was dying. He could have commanded it to stay alive, but it was in so much pain and with the name in his throat the pain was not just the cats but  _ his _ . He owned that stupid fat orange thing completely.

He’d run it ragged. It was the first thing he’d owned, and he’d expired it within a week.

He cried into orange fur, and never tried to own a name again.

-///-

This is what Geralt felt like:  _ molten silver, a fast-running creek, a birds song, a wolfs howl, the sea before a storm. _

It engulfed Jaskier the moment he had whispered Geralt’s name. He had been possessive over his dear Witcher before, but never like this. This wasn’t just a feeling, this was heady and real and  _ strong. _

Jaskier shifted backwards and watched glazed over eyes meet his own.

“Nobody here has command over you, except me,” Jaskier murmured, oh so quiet, into the minimal space between them.

Jaskier was a poet, and fae, he knew how words could hold power. But these words? Oh, these words were simple, plain, soft, yet they held authority like nothing he’d ever spoken in his life.

He didn’t need to hold his breath, didn’t need to wonder if this would work if Geralt would listen.

There was nothing else Geralt could do.

Geralt blinked, and the slight growl in his throat was the only warning the rest of the fae got that something was wrong.

Jaskier’s hand reached out, swift as a swallows flight and grasped the fallen sword so he could throw it into Geralt’s hand. Before he could get his grip around the hilt, his reaching fingers brushed against the iron and he let out a yelp, burning himself even as he wrapped his hand better around it to throw it into Geralt’s hand.

He heard the Queen’s enraged shout just a second after his own howl of pain – like a clap of thunder – but already Geralt had his sword in hand and had thrust it into the closest fae, the thing screaming like the crash of a wave on the end of it.

Jaskier’s hands still burnt, but adrenaline and power coursed through him in equal measures, making him feel near indestructible. The fae were pushing all their force into recapturing Geralt’s mind, none of them realising what had happened, but Jaskier knew with a bone-deep certainty that they’d be trying all their lives; it wouldn’t matter.

Geralt was  _ his. _

Nobody had command over Geralt, except for  _ him. _

While the court pounced on Geralt, Jaskier moved to Ciri. This might be a good plan, but it was only good for so long as they had the element of surprise on their side. They needed to get out of here. Quickly.

Jaskier gave a futile tug on Ciri’s hand, but the girl remained dancing, oblivious to the commotion around her. Jaskier hadn’t really expected it to work. They’d need time to get all the flowers out of her hair properly, her mind would need space away from the court.

Jaskier sighed, “sorry about this, little lion cub. I’ll make it up to you. Desperate times and all that.” And without further ado, he pushed all the force his body could muster into a knock on the back of her head.

She toppled over, feet finally giving way, though even in her unconscious state they twitched like they still wanted to follow the demands of the court.

“Geralt, come on!” he shouted, picking her up and tossing her over one shoulder haphazardly. As he said, he’d make it up to her.

The surprise of Geralt breaking their spell was wearing off; there would be enough of them soon that they could overpower with numbers instead of tricks.

Geralt’s sword neatly separated a pretty head from an ugly body, the corpse withering like rotten leaves in the seconds it took him to get to Jaskier’s side.

Jaskier’s hand moved to catch Geralt’s in his own, “If I pass out, it’s because this is a terrible idea.”

“Jaskier, what—”

And with the power he felt from invoking Geralt’s name, the pain he felt from the iron, the rush he felt from being in a court again, he invoked a portal and pushed them through.

The last thing he heard was the further enraged screams of the Queen.

But they were safe.

Ciri was safe.

Geralt was safe.

The wind howled about them, sudden cold biting at their skin.

Jaskier grinned, cat like, teeth far too sharp and promptly collapsed.

-///-

“Where are we?”

They were the first words Jaskier managed to get out of his parched lips, spoken before he’d even managed to get his eyes open.

“You took us home,” Geralt’s voice responded, from his side, as if he’d never left it. Perhaps he hadn’t – how long had Jaskier been unconscious? The fact that the burn on his hand had subsided to a dull ache told him it must have been at least a few hours since he’d dragged them through that portal.

Jaskier blinked a few times, finally managing to push himself up and take in his surroundings; the familiar stone walls, a hearth that usually only saw fire come winter.

_ Home. _

“Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier murmured, wondering when exactly the place had become synonymous with  _ home.  _ Yet clearly, he must have viewed it as such. It took an awful lot out of him to make portals, so they usually had to be to places he had strong emotional attachment – it wasn’t really his sort of magic after all. He’d leave cheating the dimensions of space to the mages – his sort was better at distorting time, and even that Jaskier had never had much luck with.

“Hmm,” Geralt: conversationalist extraordinaire.

“Ciri?” He pushed himself further up in the bed he’d been laid on.

“She’s fine. We undid the braids and she’ll need a few days off her feet, but she’ll be alright. She’s angry, mostly, that they managed to get the jump on us, that they managed to ensnare her so easily.”

Jaskier gave a small shrug, “I imagine,” a smirk played at the corner of his lips at the thought; their little lion cub. She certainly did live up to her name.

“I imagine the hardest part will be when Yennefer finds out about all of this. She’s unlikely to take happily to her daughter being taken like some prize,” Geralt contemplated.

No, she wasn’t, Jaskier thought. In fact, it wouldn’t shock him if Yennefer decided to take some form of revenge. Maybe if she found a safe way to do so, Jaskier would join her. He still couldn’t get the image of the Queen’s lips againsts Geralt’s forehead out of his mind.

Jaskier shrugged, “Still, Ciri shouldn’t feel bad about it. I should have realised we were close to a court. It could have happened to anyone wandering those woods for too long. Fae are powerful.”

Geralt’s expression did something odd, something that Jaskier couldn’t quite read. A flatness to his lips, a quirk of his brow, “indeed,” he intoned, finally, and though his voice was as monotone as ever, it was saturated in meaning. For a moment, Jaskier struggled to place it.

But there was still that taste on the tip of his tongue. Geralt’s name, Geralt’s  _ being  _ had tasted like molten silver, a fast-running creek, a birds song, a wolfs howl, the sea before a storm.

Jaskier had  _ said his name. _

Not only that, but he had commanded him with it.

He took a deep breath, drawing a knee up under his chin, trying to seem nonchalant about his next question and failing miserably. “Are you…scared?” he’d always wanted to know what was going on in Geralt’s thoughts, but now the need was near urgent.

Geralt didn’t bother asking what Jaskier was referring to.

It had been a good plan. An excellent plan. They had pulled it off with extraordinary ease. But what was done could not be undone, secrets spilt could not be bottled back up. Geralt had told Jaskier his name, and Jaskier knew it, knew what it sounded like, knew how to use it against him.

He could own Geralt completely and utterly.

Anyone in their right mind would be scared. Fae weren’t exactly known for being reasonable and while Jaskier liked to pretend he was better than his kin, he’d never be human. His teeth would always be too sharp, his emotions too loud, his reactions too dramatic, his fingers too long.

He didn’t know if even  _ he  _ trusted himself with what Geralt had freely given.

Perhaps, now Geralt had felt it, he didn’t either.

But there was only one way out now. Jaskier’s eyes flickered to the iron sword he’d wrapped his hand around in the fae court, set by the fire with its silver twin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, quiet.

Jaskier’s eyes flickered back up.

“I am not scared of you.” The Witcher shrugged finally.

“You should be.”

“I trust you.”

“You’ve seen what my kind are like first hand now.”

Geralt huffed. Jaskier had thought they could both feel the severity of the moment, but Geralt’s reaction there seemed out of place, simple, like they were bickering over the last slice of meat and not over  _ this. _ “I’ve been dealing with your kind for almost three decades, Jaskier.”

“I don’t count.”

“Well then, it’s not a problem is it?”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes, frustrated. “You’re a  _ Witcher,  _ Geralt. I know you’ve got a tendency for monster-fucking, but this is beyond that. I could own your  _ soul. _ ”

Geralt’s eyebrows were drawing in now. He was beginning to look agitated. Something swooped in Jaskier’s belly, something awful and sick. Had he succeeded in hammering in the severity of the situation? It was what he’d wanted, a second ago, but to see Geralt look at him with regret or fear…

“Stop it,” Geralt shifted, then, moved—closer. Wait, what? Geralt’s fingertip cupped Jaskier’s face. “I would hardly have told you if I didn’t trust you with it. You  _ could  _ do plenty, you could slit my throat while I slept, and you never have.”

Jaskier swallowed, “S’different.”

“Not so different, Jaskier.”

Jaskier swallowed, pressed his face closer into Geralt’s hand, eyes fluttering shut. He could still remember what Geralt had felt like in his power:  _ hard iron, a fast-running creek, a birds song, a wolfs howl, the sea before a storm.  _ Jaskier wouldn’t ruin that, wouldn’t dare, not even a little.

“It’s Julian,” he murmured finally, “Julian Alfred Pankratz. That’s my real name.”

Geralt’s eyes widened in shock for a moment, before something soft came about them, and he leaned forward to press his lips against Jaskier’s forehead. “There. We’re even.”

Jaskier had never told anyone his name before, he had promised that he never would. Realistically Geralt could do little with it, he wasn’t a fae, he didn’t know how to command a name. But it was a show of trust, an exchange. If Geralt trusted him that much,  _ loved  _ him that much, despite what he was…

Jaskier could trust him to, with a piece of himself he gave nobody else.

From the look on Geralt’s face, he understood the gravity of what had been exchanged. He must have done, he knew what it was to feel the power of a name used on him now.

“Was it awful? When I…told you what to do?”

Geralt shrugged, “not really, it was what I wanted to do anyway. It just felt like…you. You’re not a stranger to bossing me around.”

“I won’t,” Jaskier said solemnly. He was glad, for once, that he couldn’t outright lie about things. He needed Geralt to know this was completely true, “not with this. Not with your name. I won’t use it again unless you give me permission.”

“I know you won’t. That’s why I told you,” Geralt leaned in, pressed a brief kiss to Jaskier’s lips, “Come, Ciri will want to see you.”

And so, they left the room, Jaskier’s hand in Geralt’s, both of them holding onto one another's deepest secret and knowing that neither would dare destroy the other with it.

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So it's been pretty much a month since I've done any writing, as I had to take a hiatus to do my exams (thank you to everyone who wished me good luck for them either on here or on tumblr) - as such, I'm not entirely happy with this fic, but any mistakes/bits that don't flow right please excuse as me being a bit rusty on my writing. 
> 
> I have SO MANY fics planned for over the summer, and completion of my WIPs! I'm excited to get back to writing, honestly. Come hang out with me on Tumblr if you'd like to keep informed on my progress/see me shitpost about the witcher [@Jaskier-wearing-dresses](https://jaskier-wearing-dresses.tumblr.com/). Also the biggest thank you to my beta for this one who also deserves a follow on tumblr if you get the chance [@thegirlinthetardisat221b](https://thegirlinthetardisat221b.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Toss a comment/kudos to your tired fanfic writer?


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